“I don’t think I quite understand all you’re saying,” said Victoria Worsley.
Sylvia brought her hand from beneath the bedclothes and took her friend’s.
“Does it matter?”
“Oh, but I like to understand what people are saying,” Mrs. Worsley insisted. “That’s why we never go abroad for our holidays. But, Sylvia, about being owned, which is where I stopped understanding. Lennie doesn’t own me.”
“No, you own him, but I don’t own Philip.”
“I expect you will, my dear, after you’ve been married a little longer.”
“You think I shall acquire him in monthly instalments. I should find at the end the cost too much in repairs, like Fred Organ.”
“Who’s he?”
“Hube’s brother, the cabman. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, of course, how silly of me! I thought it might be an Italian you met at Sirene. You’ve made me feel quite sad, Sylvia. I always want everybody to be happy,” she sighed. “I am happy—perfectly happy—in spite of being married.”